RED: Itachi Uchiha

tри - tree - 3

The hospital was a war zone. Danica had seen first hand the effects of the War. The heartache, the woe. But this…This was carnage. Bleeding men and women were one thing, she was accustomed to that; she was used to limbs hanging on by a thread and shrapnel still clinging to its victims.

The hospital wing was bathed in blood. An incarnadine sea right there on the floor. Rivers of red trailed in from the entrance, and smaller tributaries flowed in between the grouting of the tiles, the movement almost hypnotic to watch. Despite the chaos, everything moved in slow motion. Danica watched the onslaught of zooming gurneys and stretchers lurch past her; some people were already dead, their lifeless corpses already piling up behind designated screens.

“Dani! Over here! Quick!” Klara called, her usually immaculate hair coated in drying blood. Over the ruckus of Doctor’s orders and crying patients, Danica could hear the screams from the woods. It made her blood run cold and her bones shudder.

Snapping herself from the screams of her dreams, Danica broke out into a jog, careful of the saturated floor beneath her feet. The patient was an elderly Japanese woman, perhaps seventy or so.

“Ha...Hachi.” The woman whispered over and over again; the surrounding medical staff doing their best to stem the bleeding. Danica eyed the woman’s wounds and horror settled in her stomach.

“Are,” Danica began, her eyes wide. “Are those claw marks?” Shredded. The woman’s stomach was completely torn apart; long, lacerated gashes seeped blood and entrails. This woman wasn’t going to survive.

“No, there was an air raid on the South of the island. The Jap bastards are starting to bomb their own.” Doctor Pavlov replied, anger lacing his words. So he did have compassion.

“Hachiman…” The woman repeated and reached for Danica’s hand. Left redundant, Danica knelt beside the dying woman whilst Pavlov continued to try stitch her back together. It was useless. He knew that. Danica knew that. Even the woman seemed to understand she was dying. “Hachiman.” The woman searched Danica’s eyes, mahogany meeting seafoam in a desperate last resort.

“Hachiman? What does it mean?” Danica pressed quietly. This wasn't the result of an air raid. This was a massacre. Stone cold murder. “I don't understand.” Danica whispered, the light began to fade from the woman’s eyes, the red of her irises becoming that bit duller.

“Hachiman.”

“It's no good, she’s gone.” Pavlov admitted quietly, as if ashamed he couldn't save her. “Nurse Morozova, she’s gone.” Pavlov stared at Danica; her usually olive skin was wane and drained of colour. She still had hold of the woman’s hand, it clasped to her chest between both her hands. “Danica.”

“Hm?”

“Danica, she’s gone.” Pavlov said as he lay a bloodied hand on her shoulder. “The damage was too extensive, there was nothing more we could do.” Silence. “I'm sorry, Danica. We done our best.” A verbal armistice.

“I,” Danica began, wiping her eyes with her shoulder. “I understand. Thank you, Doctor Pavlov.” Pavlov nodded in understanding. War was hard. Cruel. Not only for the soldiers on the front lines, but for everyday folk too; they were collateral damage, inconsequential loss. Would they raise cenotaphs for the fallen folk? Would they commemorate their bravery in the face of all of this? He took one last look at the woman on the bed, her wrinkled lips ajar as her dying words lingered in the air.

No, they probably wouldn't.

***

By the time Danica left the hospital, the Aniva Lighthouse was lit. The beacon revolved around, and around; the beam of light ran across the land like the hand of a mother soothing a child. Tonight, Sakhalin Island came under attack. Danica knew it was no air raid that killed those people. They were murdered, hunted down like sport, left for carrion.

She was drenched head to toe in blood. The fluid left a coppery wash on her skin; her hair looked rusted, clumps of would-be iron clinging to her curls. The light of her little cabin was a pinhole in the darkness, a single ray of gold amidst the shadows of the woods.

No smoke lingered in the air like after an air-raid. Usually, pillars of thick smog towered over the island, the plumes billowing in the wind. The same wind would carry ash across the land, it settling in flurries, a grey snowstorm. Nothing. Danica couldn't smell a thing. No smoke, nothing.

Upon entering the cabin Ruslan immediately gasped.

“Pchelka,” Ruslan gaped at Danica, his periwinkle eyes as wide as serving plates. “Pchelka, what happened? Are you alright? You're not hurt are you?” Ruslan held her at arm’s length eyeing any sign of injury. Danica, somewhat dazed, shook her head.

“Air-raid on the South of the island.” Lies. Even saying the words left a sour tang in her mouth. “They were innocent. They weren't soldiers-”

“Shhhh shhh it's ok, Pchelka. It's all over now, you're safe.” Ruslan held her like a crying babe; he tucked her into his chest, his arms hanging in boughs around her, solid muscle encapsulating her. But it didn't soothe her aching heart nor did it stop the bile from biting at the back of her throat. He didn't care, he just wanted her to stop crying.

“I'm going to go get a bath.” Danica croaked, peeling herself away from Ruslan. He looked over her once more; tiny bronze trails ran down her cheeks where the tears had fought their way through the blood. Again, he looked at her like an injured lamb for the taking.

“Would you like me to join you? We could-”

“No thanks.” Danica edged away from the fingers that traipsed around the collar of her crusted uniform. “I just want to get a bath and go to bed. But thank you.” Danica offered up a weak smile, putting on her best impression of a damsel in distress.

“But just think, we could soak in the warm water,” Ruslan purred, snaking an arm around her waist, his lips expertly finding the curve of her neck. The gesture would have once brought tingles to her loins and make her stomach leap with excitement. Now it made her ill. “Let all those tight muscles unwind.” Ruslan kissed upwards, his teeth grazing the lobe of her ear whilst his hands began to gather up the hem of her dress.

“Ruslan.” Danica protested, she leaning away from his adventuring lips.

“Come now, Pchelka. Don't be such a spoil sport.” Ruslan’s hands found the rim of her stockings, his skin callous against her thighs.

“Ruslan I said no!” Danica shoved him away roughly; she stood her ground and eyed him down. She would not falter. “Do you not understand, no? I am covered in someone else's blood and all you can think about is getting into my pants?”

Danica watched him closely, the way he leant against the dinner table and ran a hand through his hair. He was pissed. Royally so. The half eaten chicken caught her eye. “You know? You can be such an inconsiderate bastard, sometimes.”

“Danica.” A red flag. He never said her name.

“Go fuck yourself Ruslan.” Danica turned swiftly, grabbing her bag before heading towards the front door. “Because believe me, that’ll be the only action you'll be getting for a while.”